The Underworld

This would be my interpretation of the idea of the Underworld, and what happens when we go there.

“Everything around you will be the purest white. While it may seem to end at some point it doesn’t. You mustn’t forget that; the underworld doesn’t ever end.” came the raspy voice of the old man into the young man’s head. He (the young one) had simply awoken in a field of white. Just like the elder had said. At first the young man was disoriented, stumbling about like a child, even falling a few times. The ground. It was unlike anything the young man had memory of experiencing...or was it? Now that he was thinking about it the memories he did have were fading away. A panic took over, the harder he focused on the memory loss the faster the memories disappeared. It was as if they had evaporated in blistering heat.

Heat. While there was no sun the young man noted that it was still pleasantly cool here.Yet there was also no breeze. In fact, it was as if the air wasn’t moving at all. Now there was only a matter of figuring a few things out. The basics should be first. He had been born...in a place with little light. There was a lot of shouting, desperate shouting. His mother must be dieng. The young man realized that he was born killing his mother. What was her name? What was his name? If he could JUST figure out a name it would give him some semblance of self. An image of vast emptiness overtook him. Strangely, it didn’t phase him. Perhaps the passing of his mother contributed this. It was as if being so alone wasn’t a bad thing. Quickly he rationalized that he must’ve grown up alone. What a sad existence he didn’t remember. While dabbling in his past his mind began to wander.

A wandering mind is a powerful thing. After only having been in the Underworld for what seemed like moments the young man thought of many things. Though he had no plan, other than to simply begin walking in any direction. Possibly right. Yes, he would go right. Good, now there was a goal to reach. On second thought, how would he gauge distance? A quick glance around revealed nothing of any significance. Not that it mattered. His mind was already set on this course of action and he had the feeling he was very stubborn once. Not only was he stubborn, he was also a man who loved nature. No, not nature. Just mountains. That sounded about right, a vast set of mountains as far as the eye can see.

Across the emptiness the ground shook violently. Massive cracks began to appear, followed by the groan of creation. Mountains, mountains that were just slightly different from all the other white around it. Not too different though, one would really have to look to see them but when they did there was no forgetting them. This was creation. Horizons began to appear as what was once emptiness was now starting to form a curve. Subsistence, the Underworld was beginning to have subsistence. Finally the ground became solid. Before there was no true ground yet one was never falling. Before, there was nothing. Now, for whatever reason, something was taking shape.

It struck the young man to head to the mountains. After all, there was now ground, “Can’t move without something to move on.”, there was now a goal “I cannot move if I cannot know that I am moving.”, and there was now something “I cannot be anywhere if there is nothing, with something, I am somewhere.” At first the young man couldn't walk, but soon he was steadily moving. He made a mental note to give himself a name later, then tried to recall how he had gotten to the Underworld. This was in fact, the land of the dead. To the young man it seemed to fit though he could see no others. “Perhaps I was too wicked to associate with any others. Or perhaps I was too pure to be corrupted by the evil men around me.” Faceless bodies began to wander around the young man. Though to the common eye they may be hideous, to the young man they were simply a blank canvas.

Focusing on what he knew must be on a face the young man began to create. At first the young man had to find reason. Why should he create anything? Why not simply float, the ground drops, forever in emptiness, there is nothing. Mountains retreat, horizons vanish, blank canvases burn. Once again the young man was now in nothing. Such a state was suitable for thinking. When the young man thought, he pondered why. Why must there be subsistence? “When one creates, one assures the creations doom.” he mused. Though the young man knew that destruction was the only path to creation and vise versa. “I am the beginning cycle.”

So the young man created. Much faster this time as he could recall a snapshot of a memory. In it’s very beginning the young man’s creation was simply ash. Dull gray ash settled from what was now above on what was now the ground. When the young man moved the ash would rise in small swirls. He recalled earlier thoughts, in order to move he must have subsistence. All at once the ash bent into a horizon, mountains burst outward, and the young man was satisfied. Now the young man could move forward, or backward, or to the side. For the first time since awakening in the land of the dead the young man felt something. “Perhaps the first emotion is pride. Pride in what I have created.”

In order to feel true pride the young man would need to explore what he had created. Moving forward he found that the mountains never seemed to get any closer to him. “In order to reach something, I will need to see that I have moved.” At that massive buildings sprung from the ash. They had no gleam, no beauty, much like everything the young man created. The buildings simply were. “Can something without any kind of thought truly have any form of existence?”

“Why can I create?” the young man realized that he may not even be a man at all, though he did perceive himself as one. “In order to be anything, one must perceive itself.” This came across as troubling. “Should the creator create itself?” This was starting to simply be too much. “The creator must bear the burden of creation.” came the voice of the old man again. Slowly, the young man began to cry. This was but the second emotion in what was no longer the void, sadness. So great was the creator’s sadness that he began to perceive something as sad as he was.

Oceans sprang to life beyond the mountains. Water became the manifestation of the creator’s sadness. For water is never constant, water is not calm forever yet it is not chaos forever, water holds no color of its own yet creates the entire spectrum of light, and water could be vast or minuscule. Water, much like sadness or subsistence, can only be measured by the depths at which it can reach or not reach.

“If I am to create, I must know how long my creation stands.” Such thoughts weighed heavily on the creator. Here lies the most important step of all, the passage of time. He reasoned that in order for time to pass there must be something that can only stand for a limited amount of time. It was then the canvases returned but this time they were not blank. They shuffled about with what seemed to be heavy appendages swaying back and forth. It was now the third, and perhaps most dangerous emotion sprung forth, this emotion was curiosity. The creator slowly made his way down to his creations but they couldn't perceive him. “In order for something to perceive, they must have a reason to do so.”

A small sapling then slowly poked its leaves upward in a small vine. The creator then waited for the canvases to find the vine, watch it grow, and perceive that there was something else there. After some time, the canvases did find the sapling, yet this time they were more cautious. Limbs that once hung so heavily now seemed weightless as the moved fluidly and steadily through the ash. As the first canvas reached the sapling it studied it momentarily before ripping it from the soil, it’s tiny roots hung in the air. For a moment all was still, until the creator experienced the final emotion, all consuming anger.

In the creators anger the canvases slowly burned again. Only this time the creator gave them a way to voice the pain of being destroyed. In a fit of rage, the canvases were given mouths. For what seemed like eternity they screamed but their cries fell on deaf ears. So great was the creators pain that the suffering of the canvases was simply ignored.

For this was the land of the dead. In it, there are no limits, and in it there is nothing. Yet nothing cannot stand forever, it must become something. Only can the dead pave nothing into something as the dead are those who have passed through something. To have created is to destroyed, to have dyed is to have also lived, however brief any of those things are they forever remain consistently inconsistent.  

Author's Note

My inspiration for this short story came from Terry Goodkind’s novel The Wizards First Rule. In it, one of the characters talks about going through the underworld and how crazy it was. That whole thing sort of resonated with me. This is the result. Also, now that I reread it, it’s my first story in first person omniscient. Huh. Enjoy.